It's been two months, Boston. I've been to bigger and prettier cities than you.

Across two countries and an island, every city had a different rhythm, different people, different smells. Some were very good to me, some weren't -- and that was fine, I was ready for it. I was prepared for a life of wandering, never setting down roots, never calling anywhere "home."

A few days ago I caught a special showing of Boondock Saints, at a theater. I found myself reaching for the skyline during the opening, and choked-up at the sight of my tree-lined river, the Commons, the bridge I fished off as a kid. I feel a pang whenever I see a sign for i.95 -- my lifeline. Without realizing it, I've been keeping tabs on the damn Red Sox.

I'm coming, Boston. You hear me? I'm coming back.

I'm coming home.

And I'll bet you thought I was done. Hah!

Next stop: Cozumel, Mexico.

Important Lessons From the Road:

- Have a bandanna handy at all times. It can be used for everything from holding down greasy hair to fashioning a makeshift gas mask.
- The craziest people were the most helpful. It's not even worth putting up your thumb when it comes to minivans, Paris-Hilton-lookalikes, and people in shirts-and-ties.
- Do not join the carnival. Seriously. You'd be tempted, just as I was when asked in Maryland -- luckily, someone stopped me in time.
- Table manners are for chumps.
- It is considered bad luck to use the last match in a book and, when travelling with others, to split telephone poles.
- Ask bus drivers if you can ride free; ask resteraunts if you can eat free. They'll say yes.
- Of all the people I asked about local motels and hostels upon entering a new city, 100% of them offered to let me crash at their place, without hesitation. This, I feel, speaks volumes for the human race.
- There is no such thing as an impossible situation. Nothing can stop you from grabbing your pack and walking away.
- Natural Ice is really terrible. I don't know how you college kids can drink that stuff.
- Few things matter by comparison to having enough food and a safe place to sleep. The rest, good or bad, is just details.

Day 21: Recovery Time

Nothing much to report here; one more day in New York, recuperating from the crazy night before.


Day 22:The Anarchists vs. The Stoicist

First thing in the a.m. I repack, catch a shower, leave a note for my gracious host, and I'm off -- but to where? I don't even know myself. I catch a train to Philly on a whim and am promptly unimpressed. So, back on the train, and I find myself in Baltimore.

Baltimore was insanely polar. The train lets me out in pretty-white-college-kid central, while just a few blocks in any direction puts you in some of the grittiest neighborhoods I'd ever seen. So I take a few hours to roam around and meet some very friendly people -- right down a group of kids gesturing towards my backpack and giving me thumbs-up as I walked past. I head into a coffee shop to charge my phone and use their computers to find a hostel or a motel or something... And, unsuccessful, I ask the girl behind me if she knows of any. Just as with the first person I asked in New York, her first response is "oh, you can stay with us, if you want." Then it got weird.

"There's like, seven of us living in this warehouse a few blocks north of here. I'm sure my roommates wouldn't mind... You want to do yoga!? They're having yoga in my building at 7:30, if you want to come!"
"I, uh... A warehouse? Is that a common thing here? And, uh, sure, I guess I'll do yoga."
"Yeah, no, it's cool. Oh! And if you go around the corner there, there's a bookstore called 'Red Emma's.' They have a book with a list of all the hostels on the east coast... It's on the first shelf, by the window."
"Ah, that I could use. Thanks, uh..."
"Paige!"
"Thanks, Paige. I'm... Will."
"Nice t'meet you, Will. I'm gonna do some studying, if you want to go find that book. I'll meet you back here!"

So, to "Red Emma's" I go. Red Emma, you see, was an anarchist. It was an anarchist bookstore, and I'd been in an anarchist-run coffee shop. I was staying with a bunch of anarchists. Feeling a little uneasy, I asked the first person I saw on the way back from the bookstore if she knew of any cheap motels around. Her response? "Oh, no, come crash with us! A bunch of us live in a warehouse in the south part of town -- we're anarchists, if that's okay." I decided to go with Paige. All things considered, I saw her first.

Now, I'm a learned man, but I must admit that I hadn't much experience in the field of the militant branch of the hippie tree. Turns out: not so bad. I did yoga, which I found surprisingly agreeable, and meandered around town with the trying-to-hard intellectuals from the class. They were hippies -- artists, performers, dredlocked and birkenstocked -- just angry ones. As for the warehouse apartments, they were massive. The bathroom was two stalls and no door in a room away from the main living area, the shower was bare pipe and blue tarps on the walls. This was "the house on Paper Street" a la Fight Club, but with nice hardwood floors and track lighting, and an occasionally-working, graffiti-sprayed elevator. I slept in Paige's bed, while she slept in one of her housemate's rooms.


Day 23: The Road 101

Got up around 8:30 and got ready to hit the road. Around 9:30 Paige joined me, and gave me a belt of hers as I hadn't one of my own. It's white leather and studded; she got it in India. Along with my five-past-nine watch and RHODY bracelet, this became a vital part of my inventory. We grabbed breakfast at an open-air market, I thanked her and was on my way.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes on the i.95 onramp and I'd caught a hitch. A madman in a paint truck, named Dan. He was screamingly flamboyant; and I mean this literally. He would shout out the windows at any and all guys he deemed attractive, honking his horn and squealing with excitement. He used to be a drag queen, and whenever in the height of his feverish excitement he'd shout his stage name, honk the horn twice, pause, exclaim "the diva" and honk the horn once more. He drove me down through DC, insisted I accompany him on his deliveries, and more than once he asked me if I'd come home with him (once with the promise of two hundred dollars). "I's playin'" he'd always add quickly. Three hours of crazed, sometimes-distracted, always-reckless driving and about thirty miles of actual progress later, I found myself on the highway, somewhere in DC. Miles of hiking to the nearest offramp, and I dragged my weary body into College Park MD.

As I approached town, I met with a girl wearing a black bandanna and oversized backpack. She was flying* with her dog while she waited for a friend to pick her up en route to Richmond, VA -- perfect for me. So, I flew with her, promising that anything I made I'd kick to them as gas money. I had limited success; it was a bad area. When the friend arrived we discovered that she'd had some form of car trouble, so they weren't leaving until the next day. Fortunately someone'd bought them a hotel room, so they agreed to let me stay there. They headed into DC to scrape up more money, while I stayed behind and tried to catch a ride. For hours. I hate College Park, MD.

Later, burned and exhausted, another friend of theirs showed up: "Devo." He expressed his intense dissatisfaction with the girls (Irene and Camilla), and we charged off at his urging to find a "beer store." We did, after walking six or seven blocks. I lied and said I only had a dollar and change to contribute, so Natural Ice it was.

We sat in the woods behind the liquor store, behind a broken-down Ford pickup, and drank. But, see, the thing is -- I don't know this kid from any other straggly, strung-out looking kid with a backpack, and I'm not about to go getting tore up with him. So, by way of slight-of-hand I made three beers go away while only drinking about 1/3 of one.

He was on the run from the law, in all kinds of states. A lot of possession charges, a handful of grand larceny -- cars -- and one aggravated assault. Devo had a kid, somewhere, and did a bullet** in jail. If he got picked up for anything in MD he was facing three more, and seven if he showed his face in New York. He gave up writing poetry a few months back. He taught me how to hop a freight train, how to avoid getting smoked-out in a tunnel while riding a diesel (wetting your bandanna from your canteen and wearing it bandito-style), and how to hide on everything from a freight car to a suicide 57***. He insisted that he wouldn't skrag**** on me, and that I could stay with them that night, which was fine. He also insisted that I "pay the rent" by "taking one for the team," to "shut Camilla up," which was not fine. "Besides," he reasoned, "she'll be strung to the gills smoking dope up in the city, and I don't want to deal with her tonight."

I was growing uneasy.

It began to rain as we headed back towards the Econolodge where they were staying -- I wanted out. I ducked into a diner for the sake of the bathroom, buying myself a moment to think, and simply decided to bolt at the first possible opportunity and worry about the details later. When I came out of the bathroom, Devo was in the diner.

"You wanna eat," he asked, looking awkwardly polite. I glanced at the bench beside him and was greeting by two white-bearded, chiding smiles and a Jesus-pamphlet.
"You hungry, son?"
"...Yeah. Man, yeah, I'm starving." I wasn't lying. "Devo, lemme just go call the girls back -- they just called me. I'll be right back." I stepped outside, Solid Snaked my way past the diner windows, and was off like a shot to the Super 8 Motel I'd noticed half a block ago. I booked a room, all but hiding from the windows in the waiting room. Once situated in my room and after ignoring two calls from Camilla and one from Irene, I called down to the main desk.
"Mumble-eight, fron' desk."
"Hey, yeah, I was the kid with the bandanna and backpack. I was just travelling with these kids -- they're crazy as hell. If anyone comes in asking for me--"
"Aw, ah' know, sugar, yo' not here." (Click.)

Glossary of Terms:

*Flying: The act of using a cardboard sign, usually reading something along the lines of "traveling, broke and hungry. Anything helps. Thanks," to panhandle for money on an onramp or median by a red light.
**Bullet: One full year of uninterrupted jail time, with no chance for leniency (good behavior, community service, etc.)
***Suicide 57: A flat railroad car, stacked over their normal capacity with cargo. Easy to catch, but exceedingly dangerous to ride.
****Skrag: The title given to one who refuses to assist a fellow traveller when it's of no major inconvenience to do so, financially or otherwise.


Day 24: Get Me the Hell Out of College Park

Devo, in his infinite wisdom, had actually shared some useful information with me: namely, a way out of Maryland. So, I awoke feeling pretty haggard, and made for a nearby bus route, which led me to the DC Metro system. I used this to get to Chinatown, with intent to take the infamous Fung Wah bus from Chinatown DC to Chinatown Richmond.

At the advising of a passer-by while seeking the Fung Wah pick-up, I instead caught a train on the cheap. In fact, cheap enough that I'd forgo Richmond altogether and scream straight down to Atlanta, GA.

A long, meditative train ride. I put my past behind me, years overdue. I felt gaunt, exhausted, sore to my very bones -- but strong. I felt renewed, if not in body, but spirit. I reclined with a glass of wine and a copy of Dostoevski's "The Idiot" for a few hours, glowing to myself, and I soon fell asleep.


Day 25: And They Hate on Hitchhikers, Like, Ev'ery Day

The train rolled into Hotlanta around 8:00 am -- I was already up and ready to move. A hiked a few miles to the highway, my legs now screaming at me, and threw my thumb out. For an hour. Got flipped-off. Then two. Got shot dirty looks. Then three. Got needlessly yelled at. I hiked back to the Amtrak station, defeated, with my shoulders and legs on fire.

Amtrak doesn't run from Atlanta to Florida, and Greyhound didn't have a bus going there for another two-and-a-half days. I gritted my teeth: I would not be stopped, so close to my destination. I walked three miles to the nearest train station. I was going to the airport.

Day 25 (cont.): The End

The flight was only an hour, and though I do love flying, my funds were now completely exhausted and there was still the matter of getting from Ft. Myers to Naples -- about thirty five miles. I limped two miles from the airport, over a vast wasteland of a field, trying to get to i.75. By the time I reached pavement, pouring sweat, (I stress, here, that I am in no way exaggerating) there were four turkey vultures circling the field above me. Thankfully, that pavement was a crazy-long onramp to i.75, and I caught a hitch after about ten minutes of wobbling in place with my thumb out.

My ride was a quiet, nerdy guy driving -- believe it or not -- a taxi. He offered me some water which I greedily took, and dumped me off on the highway with about twenty miles to go, to Naples. At this time, I reflected to myself, wearily "y'know, I haven't been hassled by a single cop yet... Watch; any minute now." And, oh, how I did laugh to myself when the Florida state cop pulled into the breakdown lane just ahead of me, not more than three minutes later.

Again, I must stress that I am not making any part of this up.

He was a nice enough guy; just reminding me that it was illegal to hitch on an interstate, to which I casually responded that I wasn't -- my ride just let me out there, and I was walking to the onramp. His response was a casual wave and "alright, man. Take 'er easy," and he drove off. I sat down on the spot to drink some of my water, and laughed aloud for a good while.

Another mile up the road, give or take, and maybe a half-hour with my thumb raised earned me what was by far-and-away my favorite ride. His name, he insisted, was Tony Montana.

He really did look the part, too -- right down to the unintelligable accent. He ranted and raved for about fifteen miles, chain-smoking all the while. The only word I could make out was an occasional "fookin'" though the up-tempo latin music he was blasting. He drove like a man possessed, as many of my rides seemed to -- though none so bad as this. Like Dan the Diva he passed people while on double-yellow lines, yeah, but while there was oncoming traffic. "Relash, mu fren'! Relash!" he'd laugh upon narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, slapping my backpack or my shoulder. He dropped me at a gas station a few blocks away from Fielding, with a gift and a demand. "Is' be easy fo' you, here, this station. Ask'a lady in, she tell sa'way for Wahl'grin." He paused for a moment and, looking grave, handed me a $20 bill. "You nevah' foh-gets. You nevah' foh-gets Tony Montana, mu fren'." I promised him that I wouldn't.

What I hadn't realized is just how long a Florida block was -- at least, in that area. With a hand-drawn map and a "good luck" from the lady at the gas station, I started walking.

There was no break-down lane for anyone to pull over and grab me, so hitching was out. I hadn't showered since the night I escaped from Devo and company. My entire body hurt -- most of all my feet -- and my bandanna, my t-shirt, even my jeans were soaked with sweat. During mile one, I found a length of grey PVC pipe that became my trusty walking stick. Another mile or two later, things started getting a little bleary. A short time after that, through the waves of heat coming off the street, I could faintly make out the streetlights that marked block number one. At this time Fielding called me and told me that he'd meet me there, at that corner, in about an hour. This was the last, the very last leg of my trip.

I dragged my dead legs towards that road, towards those lights, supporting myself on my sad grey length of pipe. Burnt despite sunblock, drinking boiling water from my Sarah Lawrence nalgene bottle; completely drained. My eyes hurt, my ears were ringing, and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to make it to those lights before he got there, and I'll be damned if I didn't. I fell in a heap against the lamp-post at that corner, panting and sopping wet, and that's where Fielding found me.

Now, here I am. I can relax, I can eat and drink whenever I want. I have a reliable place to sleep, and can shower daily -- I have my own room, here. All the questions I set out with are answered, all my doubts have been settled, and my big heavy cross is laying somewhere by the train tracks in northern Georgia. There's just one thing left unresolved:

How the hell am I gonna get home?

I know you saw the whole thing -- every mile, every minute. I know that you already know, but just the same: I did it. I finished our walk.

I left my cross somewhere in Georgia, I don't know where exactly.

I couldn't find it again if I wanted to.

No worries, guys. Just hard to update. Such stories I have. I'll write soon; it's hard to update from here. Here's a little teaser:

- Sleeping in an anarchist's bed. (Baltimore, MD)
- Hitchin' with a drag queen. (Balt. - D.C.)
- Cheap beer with an criminal, behind a broken-down Ford. (College Park, MD)
- Laying low in a sleazy motel, then a frantic escape from Maryland. (currently in progress)

We're only getting started, baby. Richmond VA, here I come.

Come 'round dinner time, I decide to drag myself back to town and pay a visit to Mike at the resteraunt he manages. The food was excellent, and topped off with the finest glass of pinot noir I've ever had. Back at his place, we'd discussed food quite a lot -- both of us vegetarians, him having attended a culinary arts school and me having done some considerable cookery in my day. He asks me to consider staying in Bronxville and offers me a kitchen job, stating in no uncertain terms that I'd be making well enough to live in what is officially the single richest suburb in the US. I delcined with a grin; I'm not ready to stop just yet. With a smile and a nod, he quietly refilled my glass.

As I finished my food, I overhear someone greeting the owner of the resteraunt. I turn and glance at him, and a flash of recognition lights his face and quickly disappears. He deftly manuvered around the resteraunt, lighting candles, brushing off tables, turning up the ambient music ever-so-slightly: he seemed a bit shaken, but I assumed that was just his nature, as the owner. He took Mike aside, who laughed loudly.

The owner had thought I was Heath Ledger. Figure that one out.

Later on a young couple comes wandering in from the rain, having just attended an early wedding -- they're already half in the bag. They're joined soon after by another girl from the wedding. As the guy floundered with what kind of martini he wanted, "different, but not fruity," I chimed in with "dirty and straight-up, man." "Yes! Perfect!" he exclaimed, and so I made a new best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world. Mike knew them, and gave them a bit of my backstory: just a humble vagabond, wandering the countryside with his big green rucksack, who blew into Bronxville for a few days. The guy's name was Brian, the girl who joined them is his cousin Mary, and his girlfriend's name escapes me -- ironically, as you'll soon see. I introduced myself with "Wilto, but 'Will' is just fine." I talked about where I'd been, hitching, my time in London, and the world I left behind, drawing -- much to my surprise -- awe and jealousy. Moreso awe from the females at this lovable young tramp they'd found and jealousy from poor Brian, choking in his tie.

Upon commenting that a drifter like me was no doubt lowering the property value in Bronxville, I almost fell off my chair when I was met with a chorus of compliments from the girls: "oh, but you're so handsome!" "No, but, you're really cute! And I wish I could do what you're doing, and... You are really cute, Will!" "If I were single," the girlfriend later exclaimed, sloppily pointing back and forth between she and I. "This would be veee-ry different! I'd take you home in a second..!" This is a bold statement to make with one's boyfriend not more than two feet away, and her insistance on placing her hand on my shoulder wasn't helping. She called her (37 year old!) sister and insisted that she come meet me, the unilateral phone conversation sounding something like:

"Yeah, we're at the bar. You should come by! I met a guy here; he's really cute!"
"What? Yeah, Brian is here, why?..."
"Ah, it's okay. So, are you coming!?"
"Are you sure? He's hooo-ot..."
"Aww, you suck. Okay. Bye, hon!"

Brian, I could tell, was finding this "lovable tramp" less and less lovable as time went on. The free wine kept flowing and Brian's girlfriend had most definitely taken an unhealthy liking towards me, so I thought it best to extoll his virtues: "see, now, this looks like a guy with a future!" I asked him what he did for a living -- I forget, but it was something high-paying. "See that, man? I'm jealous!" I lied, "that's what I should be doing! Settling down, finding a nice girlfriend!" In retrospect, given the circumstances, saying this may not have helped to reassure him nor to dissuade her.

They invited me to whatever bar they were headed to next and I, windblown as always and now quite drunk, tagged along. After I'd had half a Guiness and batted her hands away a few times, Brian was understandably ready to go home, th' poor guy. They dropped me off where they'd found me and I stumbled home with my umbrella -- which, I assume, is a much better evening's end than they were having. Serves her right.

All in all, a crazy-ass night. I'll never see these people again. They don't even know my real name.

I gotta tell you, man: +20 points to my ego.

Day 19 took a turn for the frantic upon contacting Brian, my New Jersey contact, to confirm that I'd be staying there the next night. It turns out he'd be leaving for Maryland early the next morning -- and there was a chance I could hitch down with him, if I could make it to Jersey that night. Sadly, after a panicked last minute search for a means of getting to central NJ -- we're talkin' about the part of NJ that's covered by the "New Jersey Transit" logo, on their map -- a total failure.

The night ended perfectly: in a graffiti-sprayed basement, a pre-chewed blues band trying their damnedest to sing soulfully and a room full of confused suburban kids attempting to dance. I was elated; simulated though it may have been, this was my environment. A dingy basement, screaming harmonicas and guitarists so engrossed in their solos that they made their own knees weak, while "Miller High Life" is being handed out, for free, from an ice filled trashcan. Later in the night the stage was seized by a lovely blonde girl, angelic in her poise and her soft, ever-present smile -- until she set hand on the mic. She began belting out "No Way Out" by the Allman Brothers so loud and so strong that the dancers were still for a moment, and I all but swooned.

Exhausted and feeling fine, I retired to my mattress shortly thereafter.

Right now I have some time to kill and a library in which to do it, so I suppose it's as good a time as any for a more in-depth recap of my adventures thus far.

If you all promise to be on your very best behavior, I'll leave comments on for this one.

It started with a bittersweet prelude: it was likely that this would be the last time I'd ever see Stonehill, home to so many memories, good and bad. For all my jealousy-inspired rantings about the college machine, I will miss that place and the people I've met there terribly. Too-few days of good company, and nights of exclusion from only the hottest of, uh, sports-bars in... What, Easton?.. Brockton? All in all, a good laid-back time was had, perfect to set the stage for the remainder of my pilgramage. Until:

My first return to The Bebop. Dan called me while headed north on rt.24, offering me my first unofficial hitch: back to Stoneham. A few days there was just enough to recover from Stonehill's ever-questionable food, and I think little else needs be said about my time at home.

A late start leaving The Bebop placed me in Roxbury for the night, hosted by one Mr. Rob Brown. A gentleman and scholar as always -- and most importantly, willing to lend me a couch close to the MBTA, which, the next day, led me straightaway to:

Kingston, RI. On exiting the train with no more than a vague idea as to where I was headed, I stopped the first person I saw -- a worn-looking old man, with matted hair and a beard to match -- how to get to Narragansett. his response was my official induction into vagabond-hood. After a pause to glance at my oversized pack with a sympathetic eye, he grunted "you'll be able to hitch a ride from the top of this hill, down 138 east to 108, south." I thanked him, elated, and did exactly that. In surprisingly short time I'd caught two rides, both college-aged males from the midwest. The first silent but for an introduction and quick banter, dropping me at the 138/108 junction. The second ride was more conversational -- a last-year URI student, originally studying "grass and turf management" or somesuch nonsense. He informed me that years ago URI students routinely made their way to and from class by way of hitchhiking. He dropped me about five miles from my destination, and after a long, it's-just-around-this-bend-I-think hike, I arrived at the corner of Kelley's street just in time to see her drive past.

A few good days in RI, detailed elsewhere -- drinking, stealing patio furnature, bumming around the house, eating new and exciting take-out with Kelley's housemate/housecat -- and I was off like a shot again, to New York.

I emerged into the long-weekend-tourist-filled streets of New York City without the faintest idea as to where Sarah Lawrence was -- I had to ask the conceirge in some classy hotel if she could Google it for me. Me with my ratty jeans and black bandanna, surrounded by clean-cut suits and the hollow clack-clacking of work shoes. As mentioned before, Bronxville is not the Bronx, so, eventually, I arrive in the correct town. After a hitch from a few friendly SLC-goers and a hike back to town again, I start asking around for motels, hostels, etc. I ended up sleeping on the couch of a guy named Mike, a resteraunt manager and bartender with what could quite possibly be the most expensive apartment I have ever seen. We admitted our guiltiest concert-going secrets (his Def Leppard, mine KISS), discussed the perils of drug use (though he stressed that anything naturally occurring can't be all bad), and he invited me to the "Bonaroo Music Festival" to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I regrettably informed him that I'd have been to Florida and back by that time. With an offer of free food if and when I stopped by his resteraunt in town, I was off again in the early morning.

I found Cori, stayed a night, and was off again on a lunatic whim to The Bebop -- starting so well, ending so poorly, but what can one do? No need to rehash.

Back in NY, just in time to observe the 4/20 festivities the only way I know how: from afar, here on Earth, while so many were celebrating miles above me. I met what may have been Allen Ginsburg all over again, complete with beard and sad-eyed saintly aire, chewing on a cinnamon stick and drinking water from a mason jar. I mailed home some of my extranious equipment, and bought my free passage through the typically locked window of Ms. Jay's dorm by offering an anime-inclined housemate a copy of the Samurai Champloo manga from the bookstore. The window hasn't been locked since.

My adventure south may very well begin tomorrow -- just in time for the horrid weather, but what fun would this trip be if not for the challenges?

Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

I still feel like I've been settled at Sarah Lawrence for too long. At the urging of my host I did agree to stay until Saturday, but I just got notice that there's some kind of crazy storm warning going into effect for this weekend - starting tonight - and that afterwards the temperature is gonna drop back to high 50's, low 60's for most of the week.

I stand undaunted. I'm leaving anyway -- Sunday at the absolute latest.

Alright, no more.

Yeah, when I get back, things will have changed: people will be graduating, moving, starting their successful adult lives. Yes, I am too old to be jobless, degree-less, and bumming around the US -- so, maybe I will end up pumping gas or bagging groceries. When I go back, yeah, the same demons that have haunted me for years will still be there, waiting, wringing their hands. There's a good chance there isn't much of a home to return to, sure, yeah. I know all this, and it's been killing me since I re-left.

This trip is not the "event horizon" that I had convinced myself it would be. Plenty exists beyond it, and trust me, it all sucks -- probably even more than I anticipate. I'm not "not looking forward to" how events will unfold, I'm outright dreading it.

But, I have one thing left to do before I reach the end of damn near everything I know, good or bad. That is to finish this thing with my head held high.

What happens after that is beyond my control.

Stopped at Starbucks to charge my phone and brush my teeth, at which point I was joined at my table by a man who'd hitched around Europe for seven years. After some recieving some advice and compliments on my backpack, back to Sarah Lawrence.

I roam campus for a bit, ask around for Ms. Jay, sneak into a few dorm rooms looking for evidence of her, and eventually find her hiding out beneath a tree. Attended a lecture on the global invasiveness of English as a language and the reprocussions thereof, drank yerba mate, ate fruit for dinner -- all is just as I'd expected, here.

I'll be staying here until monday, though she's going home Friday and returning Saturday night. A few days to rest up, then the long haul to Florida.

Current Location

Let it be known here and now, far and wide: I kicked New York City's ass.

So, I bid a fond adieu to Narragansett and make haste to New York, and Sarah Lawrence college. I show up in NYC with no directions, no address, a dying battery in my phone, and a good two hours of daylight. Now, a lesser vagabond would perhaps have panicked in such a situation but, no. No, not I.

Exiting the station, I found myself across the street from my old friend, Hotel Pennsylvania. I have the conceierge Google me up some Sarah Lawrence, for an address -- it's in Bronxville. "Okay," says I, the weary traveller. "The Bronx it is, as I must find a bed soon."

Now, I must stop here to advise you that "Bronxville" and "The Bronx" are, in fact, two very different places. Especially at 10:00 pm.

So, back onto NY's grossly ineffecient Metro system -- pining for the MBTA -- and stopping passer-by to beg questions. Around 11:00, I find someone who commutes there routinely, and she sends me on my way. I arrive around 11:30, to the smell of hemp and the sound of blues guitar from a nearby roof. Walking past a coffee shop, I am asked the nature of my backpack, and where I was headed. I am promply hitched on over to Sarah Lawrence. Where I then found Cori Jay? You would think so, but you'd be wrong.

See, thing is, I can't find her. I roam campus for a while -- now maybe 12:30ish -- give up and hike back to town. So, I ask around for a motel, and am offered a couch to crash on -- most fortunate indeed.

This is almost exactly how I'd thought it would be. I didn't anticipate that the food would be so much better, and the water -- the air -- so much sweeter, just because I'm free. I knew the road would give me my answers, yeah, but grudgingly -- not starting so soon as this. This much, I did not expect.

URI sent me off right last night: with a vodka buzz and stolen patio furnature. Drea, Karen, and I are ninja extrordinare.

I'm now en route to NYC -- to another planet. Man, here's hoping Ms. Jay isn't goin' home for Easter, or I'm proper boned.

Hey, what's the worst that could happen, right?

Going to URI was a damn fine decision.

Caught a train to Kingston and hitched/hiked down to Narragansett -- unfortunately more of the latter than the former, as I had a fairly constant "it's right around this corner" feeling. My sense of direction is as keen as ever, man.

So, I get here after about a five mile hike, sit for half an hour, and am lured to "happy hour" by Bernie and Drea, with the promise of free food. Two martini and some amazing hunger-spiced sweet potato fries later, we retire back here for nachos and wine. A lot of wine. Even while wasted and full of refried beans, we're classy as hell. Please believe.

Woke up hung over, kicked around on the beach for a while, digging the ocean and feeling a real Sora kinda vibe. Now I'm off to get, uh... Felafel? Filafel? Somethin' with Drea, and then I guess I'm headed out to Casey's with Kelley and co.

I haven't decided if I'm gonna hitch straight from here to NYC, or if I'm gonna head back to Boston and catch a bus or something; we'll see. I'll keep everyone updated.

Current Location (approx)

We're New York bound; sorry RI -- at least, that's what I was thinking as I got on the train for south station. Once we'd stopped at the commuter rail connection that'd get me to Providence and the doors opened, though, impulse took over and I changed my mind. I won't overstay my welcome -- maybe a day or two, and I'll be on the road again.

I don't know what I'm gonna do about Easter... I'd kinda hoped to be headed for Florida by then.

damn, damn, damn. Lost phone charger, battery dying. Sorry, guys. More later.

Got a later start than originally planned, thanks to that deadbeat with the bike... He didn't show, so, total waste of two days, just stewing at The Bebop.

So, one more decent dinner in Chinatown, one more night in the city of th' dirty water thanks to Mr. Brown, then I start south.

It's getting tense.

Current Location

Ain't this some madness? Well, I've begun my adventure. I figure, hey, road blog. It makes sense, yeah? You guys gotta keep up with my comings-and-goings somehow. Nothing much to report thus far, but I'll post via my trusty Nokia whenever possible.

So far, I'm at Stonehill. Not a hell of a lot of travelling has gone down, but at least I'm indoors for the lousy weather... Plus, I get to borrow this magical card that makes free food happen, and that's a score-and-a-half.

I've always been a little uneasy being at a real school, and I could never quite put my finger on why -- I don't know if it's out of bitterness or jealousy or what, but the whole "college kid" idea just throws me. I just can't see approaching someone with a big grin and saying "oh, hey, you're in my underwater basketweaving class! Wanna sit together at dinner?" I can't picure just strolling into the room next door and plunking down with whomever lives there, just to hang out. There's nothin' wrong with it, don't get me wrong... If anything, I'm jealous of a lifestyle I missed-out on -- lord knows I've ranted about that enough, on my real blog.

So, yeah, I'm feelin' a little like a zoo animal, dropped onto the Serengheti. I've been kept in captivity too long, man... But while it might be half a decade too late to teach an old lion new tricks, there's no reason he can't enjoy the scenery while he gets to roam free, yeah?

Current Location